


Bloodletting

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Community: sherlockkink, Drug Addiction, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-22
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson has an addiction of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodletting

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this kink meme prompt: I want self-destructive!Watson. We all know about Holmes and his cocaine, but what if Watson also has a dangerous habit (aside from the usual gambling and drinking), such as self-injury? And Watson totally thinks he can get away with it because he's a doctor and can fix up his injuries after inflicting harm on himself. But Holmes discovers his habit and flips his shit.

It began in Afghanistan, when Watson was wounded the first time. He was curiously lightheaded, and the constant flash of pain and despair and utter helplessness that tore through his mind every waking and sleeping moment was dulled, was growing fainter, much as the sounds of the world around him were fading. His head hung down, and he watched the slide of blood spread across his leg. It was like the overload of feeling was mingling with the blood, leaving his body in a similar manner. He is fascinated, but will push the thought aside until the next time he is wounded.

This time, he cannot see the pulse of blood at his shoulder, but he can feel it, coating his skin, pooling in the hollow of his back, and he is reminded what it feels like to be at peace in one's mind. It is intoxicating, and the jolt of pain as his fellow medics lift him barely registers. Of course, nothing much was registering; the sun was going quite dark, and he is unconscious in moments.

It isn't until during his long and wearying recovery from the enteric fever that Watson decides to take matters into his own hands. Every time he sees another solider carried in, his hands twitch to be working, to be fixing, and he is instead confined to this wretched bed. And every time a solider is carried back out, minus boots and hat and beating heart, his hands clench, and he cannot help but think he could have saved that one. It is a guilt that only adds to the despair circling round his mind, and sometimes he thinks his head is full to bursting with blame and despair and disgust at his own feeble helplessness. He slams his fist against the low table beside the bed, and is startled to find the emotions fading away, dissipating as his hand oozes blood round shattered glass. It is a connection he cannot help making, and he is thoughtful as the nurse wraps his hand with scolding and disapproval.

He asks to shave, and when his hand doesn't so much slip as twist, he finds it is easy to meet his eyes in the mirror, with the curl of blood painting his jaw line. Easy to look at himself without seeing all those he has let die, easy since the first week he shipped out. It is an elegant solution, and Watson finds it easy to accept.

*

He is tired and slightly drunk, head still reeling from the shouts of the fight. He'd gambled away more than he had, again, and would somehow have to find the funds before the end of the week. The memories are crowding out rational thought, and his breath is catching under the weight of self disgust. He thinks he should have offered to fight; that would have brought the blood flowing, but he cannot think when his mind is pressing against his skull. It is habit to find his bag, and he does not need to see to choose a scalpel, does not need to think to press it to the thin skin of his inner bicep, teasing out a line of blood, skin splitting and peeling back. It never hurts at first; there is a moment of perfect silence while the red wells, the instant before it spills down his arm and the shock of pain hits him, shattering the memories, the whirling of his emotions spinning down, out through his blood. He sighs and lets his arm fall, head tilting back against the wall. His other hand comes up, fingers pressing the cut, and they rise before his eyes, stained with blood. Relief, and forgiveness; he is reminded of the practice of bleeding the patient and brings his fingers to his forehead, three marks anointing his brow. If only it lasted beyond the bloodletting.

*

Holmes is being exceptionally wearying, and Watson thinks he seems to always be full of the wrong emotions now, settling tight and sharp beneath his skin. He knows what will ease the pain, but he has to be careful if he is to keep this from Holmes. He has so very little Holmes does not know, and he is determined that this will remain his own. He waits until he is sure Holmes has passed out, and retires to his office for relief. The scalpel is an old friend, a familiar weight, and his thigh is crossed with the pale scars of previous sessions. He drags the sliver of light along the top of his thigh, a diagonally extending line from inner kneecap to outer hip. As always, it is shockingly red, and Watson catches his breath as the emotions begin to dim. He always expects the liquid springing from his flesh to be dark, a match for the emotions it contains, but it remains luridly colored, ludicrously bright. He watches the flood rise across his leg dispassionately. Quite deep; he hadn't originally intended it, but it was probably for the best if it would extend the time between. On better days, Watson sometimes wonders if this was, had become, an addiction, barely a step above Holmes' seven percent solution, but he shakes the thought off as nonsense. There is no comparison; this helped him to function, whereas Holmes' habits serve only to destroy him.

*

There is an unexpected chase the next day – or at least, unexpected on Watson's part – and he can feel the pull of the crusted over incision with every stride. It is not an unfamiliar feeling, and eases the roil of emotion within him. Settled at Baker St, however, it is not he who notices the betraying stain marking his trousers. Holmes is aghast at the thought of not having noticed him being wounded, and is by his chair instantly, his hands resting on Watson's thigh, only to halt in puzzlement as his fingers encounter no corresponding slice in the woolen fabric. His brow furrowed, he glances up at Watson, realizing this is no new wound; "When?" he asks accusingly.

"An accident, and nothing serious," Watson tells him, but Holmes is sure to notice he has not answered him.

Holmes rocks back on his heals, one hand still resting on the bloody mark. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He is bewildered, uncomprehending, and Watson is not about to enlighten him. "It's not as though I report to you, Holmes," and Holmes jerks back, mouth tight, searching Watson's eyes for something, for some explanation. Whatever he finds does not satisfy him, and he only grows more determined to get some proper answers. "Watson," he says, "Why have you not cared for this properly?"

Watson cannot answer, because the answer is not something he wants Holmes to know about him. "I will take care of it now," he says, and rises, forcing Holmes backwards. He strides to his office as quickly as he can manage, leaving Holmes sitting on the floor. He understands Holmes well enough by now to know he is not about to let this go, but he has a point; if it is bleeding through his trousers, he probably should bind it better.

He has stripped off his pants before he hears the rattle of the doorknob. There is a moment of silence, and then, "Watson. You have locked your door."

"Yes," he replies "I thought you might try to follow me, and I would rather take care of this on my own." He is settled into his chair, and he can see now that one of the plasters has come loose, allowing the whole bandage to shift.

"Then it is a very good thing I have another key," Holmes says, and Watson can feel his heart leaping into his throat; he rises, frantic to cover himself before Holmes can enter, and Holmes is in the doorway, glaring at him, a glare that changes to concern as he catches sight of the long cut on Watson's leg. "Good lord," he exclaims "What did that to you?" Watson is silent; there is nothing he can say now to redeem the situation, and he can only pray, futile, futile prayers, that Holmes will not notice the older marks. He closes his eyes and sits back down with a thump; what he would give to have a blade in his hand at the moment, and release at hand. Holmes steps forward, and kneels for an examination of his leg. "I say, that is rather nasty, though a clean slice, at such an odd angle…" Watson can hear the moment when Holmes notes the pale lines crossing his leg. His hands still; "Watson?" he breathes, hesitant, asking to be proven wrong. "What," he swallows, "What are these from?"

Watson thinks he cannot look at him, but he finds himself doing so anyway, mesmerized by those clever eyes. He sighs; this is the end, then. Holmes will have it out of him by words or actions, he will piece this puzzle together, and all that remains is what reaction he will have. "Deduce, Holmes," he replies. "Where do you think they came from?" and Holmes looks stricken.

"From the angle," he begins, and then, "The number and severity indicate..." before he falls silent again. Finally, he breathes, "Everything suggests they came from your own hand," and Watson makes a sound that falls far short of a laugh.

"Brilliant, Holmes. As usual."

But Holmes is not listening for that. "Why?" a broken sound, confused, and he does not think he has ever heard Holmes confused. "Why on earth would you do such a thing? And so many times? There is no logic to it!"

Watson does laugh then, at Holmes trying to apply logic to something that is as simple and complicated and above all, as emotional, as this. "Oh, Holmes," he says. "I can hardly explain it to you. Why do you persist in your seven percent solution when there are hosts of other distractions?"

Holmes bristles at the comparison. "They are nothing alike," he begins, but Watson will not let him start on that.

"This is hardly any worse. At least my habit harms no one else, and allows me to function, rather than descend into stupor as does yours."

Holmes looks sickened, and cannot seem to draw together a proper argument, because while logic is showing him the truth in Watson's words, emotion, a tool he seldom employs, is trying to deny the facts. Watson watches the conflict in his eyes, and Holmes closes them as his head falls forward to rest against Watson's knee. His hand is never still, tracing the ridges of white scar tissue, and he is far too close, this is too much, and Watson should not be feeling like this, not with blood letting just hours behind him. "I could stop," Holmes whispers, and Watson isn't sure he has heard correctly. Holmes' head comes up, and he stares at Watson with eyes that are suspiciously, disturbingly, bright. "I could stop," he repeats, and Watson sighs. He presses his fingers against those traitorous lips, and tells him the truth.

"You cannot stop. No more than I can. It is an addiction, Holmes, and neither of us has reason enough to break free."

Holmes is wild; Watson has seen him in all moods, but none match this. He brushes away Watson's hand and rises onto his knees. "I have never had reason," he corrects, "But… Watson," and it is a plea, it is a promise, "I could find reason," and he leans forward, his hands braced on Watson's thighs, to press his lips against Watson's, just the barest taste of possibility, and that is too much altogether.

Watson is shaking, torn by desires. He could take what is being offered, so easily, too easily; but he has been down the easy route, knows where it leads to. He leans back, the slightest fraction of movement. "No," he says, into the air between them, breath vibrating against Holmes' mouth. Holmes checks his own press forwards, frozen, and "No," Watson says again, testing the word, tasting the finality of it.

Holmes shudders; "Watson," he says, and again, like it is the only word he has left, his hands tracking the lines crossing his legs, and Watson realizes that things will never be the same. There is no going back from this moment, and there may be no going forward either. He cannot give Holmes what he wishes, but perhaps he can give him something he desires.

He lets his head fall forward, lets his lips meet Holmes' again. "This is not a bargain," he whispers against them. "We are not trading our addictions for what we can give each other. It does not work like that; if you find reason, it will not pass on to me. Can you accept that?" Holmes nods, and Watson knows he is lying, but it is too late now.

*

They are careful around each other for a while, uncertain where the boundaries of this new relationship lie, but soon enough things are as normal as they have ever been. They are close by the light of day and even closer by the light of gas lamps, and it is under that glow that Watson discovers that Holmes is almost as good as surgical steel for relieving his mind. It does not do away with his need; nor does Holmes' new restraint with the cocaine, but it certainly slows the rise of pressure.

Holmes has seen every inch of him now, has carefully mapped it with fingers and lips and eyes, and Watson is not so careful about covering the spider webbing of scars crossing his body anymore. Holmes touches him constantly, seeking out those marks, as though he is reminding himself of something. Watson does not stop him; he has his own fixation on the inner curve of Holmes' elbow, the blue vessels beneath thin skin. He is surprised at how long it has remained without bloodied bruise and puncture, and finds himself noticing the drumming of Holmes' fingers, the frequent glances at the mantle, the lack of leather case. Holmes rides the withdrawal out with almost shocking ease, and if he spends more time than proper watching Watson, traces his scars with more frequency and pressure than before, is a hair sharper than usual, well; Watson will do him the favor of not commenting.

*

The first time Holmes uncovers a piece of freshly scored skin, he is undone, and the look he gives Watson is almost betrayal. Before he can speak, Watson's hand is against his mouth; "Remember. There is no agreement," is all he says. Holmes goes still, and his eyes close, hand pressed flat to the scabbed line stretching across Watson's chest, from hardening nipple to the edge of rib cage. He is overly intent the rest of the night, and Watson learns the he can hardly bear the sight of Holmes running a hand across a recent mark, _cannot_ bear the tremble of Holmes' fingers, echoed in his face, the way he contains his reaction, hides away his fear and his worry and his anger, edging round the iris of his eyes. Watson cannot bear it, and it sends his hand to the scalpel, the helpless mixture of blame and guilt and disgust beginning to eat at him night and day, and it will not spread with the blood on his skin. And still, still, there is no puncture in the crook of Holmes' elbow, and Watson wonders how he manages to do without.

One night, a night when everything has gone wrong and there is little patience left to go around, after they have sent Lestrade and his crew away, after Mrs. Hudson has retired in despair, Holmes places a hand on Watson's arm, and there is blood beneath his fingers. Watson does not know if it is exhaustion, or the failure of the case, or simply a breaking point, a signpost towards the ending, but Holmes cannot gather himself back together with closed eyes and deep breaths. He falls against Watson, and they tangle on the sofa, tears pooling in the hollow of Watson's throat as Holmes loses the fight with emotion. Holmes has given up, he thinks, and it is as though the thought has cut him, his mind is so clear. His hands rise to Holmes' head, threading through his hair as Watson raises Holmes' face. "You are reason enough," Watson tells him, and it is a long moment before Holmes understands.

It is not the end of addiction, Watson knows, but it might be the beginning of a bargain.


End file.
